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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29053083">Another First Kiss</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel'>chamel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...ish, 5+1 Things, Accidental Kissing, And Then Some, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Caring Illya, Confessions, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, Forehead Kisses, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mission Fic, Misunderstandings, Morning After, Morning Kisses, Mustaches, Mutual Pining, Napoleon Whump, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Semi-conscious Kissing, Sickfic, Soft boys being soft, Stitching Up Your Partner, Surprise Kissing, Tenderness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:08:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29053083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Right, well. He did ask first, so Illya has no business looking as shocked as he does when Napoleon surges up to press their lips together. It’s rather like trying to kiss a brick wall, except the wall is probably more likely to warm up eventually. And definitely less likely to murder him later. He glares up at Illya, who stares daggers back at him, his fists curled into balls at his sides. Christ, he should have just lept out the window.</p><p>(<del>Five</del> Six episodes in the lives of two disaster spies featuring stolen kisses, and one where no theft was required.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin &amp; Napoleon Solo &amp; Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>191</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi y'all, I'm back with another 5+1, except I couldn't help myself so it ended up as more of a 5+1+1. Or something. I decided to post these as individual chapters because most of them are long enough to be their own little mutual pining one shots, just barely threaded together by a theme.</p><p>As a bit of a content warning, this is a fic about <i>stolen</i> kisses, and so it does involve some semi-conscious kissing, which I acknowledge as a trope is kind of dubcon-y. If that bothers you, you might want to give this one a miss.</p><p>Title from the song of the same name by They Might Be Giants.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I</p><p>This time it is <em>not</em> his fault.</p><p>Napoleon would argue that, on the whole, his partner greatly exaggerates the number of times a mission is compromised (or nearly so) because of something he did. You set off <em>one</em> non-standard alarm on a safe, and it follows you around for the rest of your career, apparently. But this time, <em>this time</em>, he knows that he got away completely clean from his earlier visit to their target’s safe, so when Gaby brushes by him at the party and mutters that he’d been made and Linnert’s men were on their way, he can only swear under his breath.</p><p>Someone else must have talked, which is a bigger problem, but not one he can focus on right now. Wherever Gaby got her intel, it comes just a few moments too late, because before he can even think of making a quick exit, he sees a couple of men who are <em>clearly</em> not dressed for the evening enter the room and begin methodically scanning the crowd. The room is large, but there’s only one door and their opponents leave someone to guard it. The only way he’s getting out of this is if he can get them to somehow overlook him and leave on their own.</p><p>Keeping one eye on the men, he moves indirectly yet expediently toward where Illya stands against one wall, making a poor attempt of not glowering into the room. He’s not sure where Gaby got off to; they’re not supposed to know each other, so she has spent most of her time elsewhere at this particular party, and after she’d delivered her message she’d vanished into the crowd again.</p><p>“Someone talked,” he tells Illya, his voice low. He angles himself so he can still track the goons out of the corner of his eye, and he can tell from the way the other man subtly tenses that Illya has followed this obscure line of sight to his pursuers. “I’ve been made. Unfortunately Gaby’s message came a little late. Two men in the room, one at the door.”</p><p>He does not appreciate the way Illya’s lips twitch skeptically. “Thought you got away clean.”</p><p>“I <em>did</em>,” Napoleon grits out. “There has to be a leak somewhere.”</p><p>Illya hums at this assessment, and Napoleon can’t quite tell if it’s in agreement. He glances up at the Russian and sees his eyes track across the room, following the searching men. “Why are you still here?” he asks under his breath.</p><p>“I’m sorry if I can’t make a subtle exit from a crowded party through a second-story window that hasn’t been opened in the last hundred years,” Napoleon retorts sarcastically. “There’s only one door, in case you hadn’t noticed.” As if he hadn’t checked when he got here.</p><p>His partner frowns. “Maybe thirty seconds until they are in visual range.”</p><p>Napoleon very briefly considers his options. He needs something that won’t just make them overlook him, but will actively encourage people to look away. There’s one option that will almost certainly work, but Illya definitely won’t like it; well, too bad for him. It’s Napoleon’s ass on the line, here.</p><p>“Kiss me.”</p><p>Illya doesn’t immediately move, but his eyes widen subtly and his next blink is slow, so Napoleon knows that his partner heard him. Seconds tick by, and Napoleon risks a glance over his shoulder. The goons have made it halfway across the room by now, and are closing in fast.</p><p>“<em>What?</em>” Illya hisses.</p><p>“Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable,” Napoleon says matter-of-factly. It’s not exactly that type of party, but it’s not <em>not</em> that type of party either. The people around them will avert their eyes, and Napoleon is willing to bet that the Linnert’s men will too.</p><p>Illya is currently looking at him like he’s grown another two heads, though, so it may be a moot point. “Yes, they do,” he growls in reply.</p><p>Right, well. He did <em>ask</em> first, so Illya has no business looking as shocked as he does when Napoleon surges up to press their lips together. It’s rather like trying to kiss a brick wall, except the wall is probably more likely to warm up eventually. And definitely less likely to murder him later. He glares up at Illya, who stares daggers back at him, his fists curled into balls at his sides. Christ, he should have just lept out the window.</p><p>He has no way of knowing where Linnert’s men are now, and he’s just about to give up on this fool’s errand when Illya’s eyes flick up somewhere behind him for a second. Then Napoleon becomes pretty sure that Illya has decided on murder sooner than later, because his partner crushes the front of his suit into one fist, and abruptly they are moving. Illya rotates them, slamming Napoleon’s back into the wall and pressing his other hand flat next to Napoleon’s head so that he looms completely over him.</p><p>With Illya practically wrapped around him, the rest of the room is completely obscured from his view, which, Napoleon realizes, means that he must be obscured from the rest of the room as well. So perhaps Illya <em>doesn’t</em> have murder on his mind. Yet. It’s honestly hard to tell from the look on his partner’s face at the moment. The position puts their faces in close proximity, but Napoleon makes no move to resume the kiss; he has no doubt that they certainly <em>look</em> intimate, even if nothing is actually happening, and that is enough for the purposes of keeping Napoleon from discovery.</p><p>That doesn’t mean he doesn’t <em>want</em> to. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about kissing his stupidly attractive partner on occasion. Ok, perhaps more than <em>on occasion</em>. At first he assumed the impulse was just the kind of passing fancy that would fade, as these things tend to do, but it had stubbornly remained intact as they became closer as partners and friends. If anything the impulse has just gotten <em>worse</em>, which is really quite inconvenient. As is the fact that Illya’s body is now protectively curled around his in the effort to hide him, close enough that the heat radiating off him is making Napoleon’s heart start to beat a rapid, erratic rhythm. Illya is just <em>staring</em> at him with an intensity that is a little disconcerting, and Napoleon can’t even begin to read the expression on his face.</p><p>“Are they gone?” Napoleon breathes into the narrow space between them, when he can’t really take Illya’s proximity anymore without <em>something</em> changing. To his surprise Illya nearly startles at the question, almost like he’d been lost in thought, but before he can even turn his head to check, a familiar voice intercedes.</p><p>“What <em>are</em> you two doing over here?” Gaby asks from a position right next to them. Napoleon glances to the side, finally breaking away from Illya’s gaze, and finds her leaning against the wall and regarding them with her eyebrows somewhere near her hairline. He’s not sure how she got so close without him noticing.</p><p>“Hiding Cowboy,” Illya mutters, as if it were that simple.</p><p>Napoleon supposes it is, in a way, but it’s hard to believe that when Illya’s body is half-pressed against his and there’s still some kind of odd tension hanging in the air between them. He forces his attention to Gaby instead, though the deep breath he takes is less steadying than it might have been, given that his nose is filled with the scent of his partner.</p><p>“You’re not supposed to—” Napoleon begins in a forced whisper, but she waves him off.</p><p>“Doesn’t really matter anymore. Linnert’s men are gone, so we should leave before they decide to come back.”</p><p>At that Illya finally—<em>finally</em>—pushes away from him, and Napoleon feels briefly lightheaded at the rush of cool air that floods in to take his place. The memory of this will no doubt torment him later tonight, and probably for a good deal longer.</p><p>It’s fine. He doesn’t really need the sleep, honestly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just in case there is anyone out there reading this who is wondering, "is it annoying/overwhelming if I comment on every chapter?" The answer is NO, it is amazing and wonderful. I live for your comments.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, desperation and resuscitation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>II</p><p>The muffle <em>whump</em> of a silenced pistol is all the warning Illya gets.</p><p>He’d just noticed the vague outline of another ship in the distance, a sure sign that their enemies were on their way. Except apparently their enemies were already <em>there</em>, because just as he’s turning to point the boat out to Napoleon, he is shoved bodily away from the stanchions at the side of the deck where they’d been standing. Napoleon—who had been the one doing the shoving—jerks once, his eyes wide, and then topples slowly into the dark water below with a loud splash.</p><p>Illya has only a moment for his shock. The two assailants—one still in the water, one half on the deck—are dispatched quickly, as they should have been in the first place. How they managed to swim to their boat without being seen or heard, Illya cannot begin to understand, nor does he have time to try. His partner has already disappeared beneath the dark waves, and Illya wastes no more time before diving in after him. The sea is cold at this time of year and the shock of the freezing water threatens to force the air from his lungs, but he pushes through. After all, he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Napoleon do something <em>that stupid</em> and get away with it.</p><p>Fortunately, it only takes a few moments before his hand closes around the back of Napoleon’s jacket. He tugs the dead weight of his partner toward the surface, and he does <em>not </em>pray to a god he doesn’t believe in that Napoleon isn’t actually dead, because if he is, Illya will bring him back to life just so he can kill him again. It’s not easy to push the ridiculously solid mass of muscle that is his partner up onto the deck of their boat, and even less so when he can feel the chill from the water seeping quickly into his bones. Illya hauls himself up next to Napoleon and turns him onto his back, swearing colorfully when he sees the red stain spreading across the right side of his chest.</p><p>Illya is <em>furious</em>. How <em>dare</em> he push Illya out of the way, how <em>dare</em> he not just shout a warning, how <em>dare</em> he take a bullet for him? No no <em>no</em>, Napoleon is not allowed to do this to him. Stupid <em>stupid,</em> annoying, infuriating Cowboy. Illya is definitely going to kill him.</p><p><em>After</em> he gives him a piece of his mind, that is.</p><p>He presses icy fingers to the chilled skin of Napoleon’s throat and is relieved to find a sluggish, weak pulse. (No, <em>not</em> relieved, just… reassured. Wait. That might not be better. Fuck.) His partner isn’t breathing, though, no doubt because his lungs are currently filled with seawater, and Illya of course knows a thing or two about <em>that</em>. He’d at least had the decency not to get shot before nearly drowning, thank you very much, and he certainly didn’t give Napoleon this much trouble. The chest compressions force fresh blood from the bullet wound, and Illya does his best to ignore it right now because the only thing that matters is that he <em>breathes</em>, goddammit.</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” he mutters viciously as he slams his palms down over Napoleon’s sternum, “don’t you <em>dare</em>, you hear me?” Huffing a deep breath, he seals his mouth over Napoleon’s, forcing air into his lungs once, twice, a third time, but his partner remains stubbornly unresponsive. “Stupid Cowboy, <em>stupid</em>, you have to <em>wake up</em>,” he snarls, picking up the compressions again.</p><p>Illya can feel his movements getting more frantic, can feel the tenuous thread of control holding him together starting to unravel. His hands are beginning to tremble, even with his palms linked together, and he cannot pretend it is the chill from the water. The entire boat rocks as he throws his weight behind the compression, occasionally sending a wave up over the gunwale that washes around his knees and Napoleon’s supine form. The water comes away bright red even in the dim light, painting the white deck with garish stripes as it flows back into the sea.</p><p>For the first time, an icy, insidious feeling of dread slides down his spine. He might not be able to save his partner. The possibility is beginning to seem as inevitable as it is unacceptable. Illya has not lost many partners, mainly due to the fact that he almost always used to work alone. But before those days, in his earlier years with he KGB, he’d run a few harrowing missions with a team where someone had not made it, or come disastrously close.</p><p>It had never quite felt like this.</p><p>He tells himself it is only the fact that Napoleon took a bullet meant for him. That it is just because he feels more responsible than he might otherwise. Certainly it is not the dangerous fondness for the American that has taken root in his chest, or the way his own throat seems to close up when he imagines missions without Napoleon’s inane commentary or his infuriating smirks.</p><p>No. <em>No</em>. He is not <em>allowed</em> to die.</p><p>Napoleon’s lips are even colder than before when Illya bends down to breathe more air into his lungs. It distressingly reminds him of how warm they were just a few weeks ago, pressed against the unyielding surface of Illya’s. Neither of them had mentioned anything more about that night, after they had left the party; what was there to say, anyway? What was done was done, just part of the mission, with nothing deeper behind it. And if that moment had haunted him for longer than he cares to admit—if he found himself unwillingly imagining what might have happened had he actually reciprocated instead of holding himself carefully in check—well, that is <em>his</em> business, and no one else’s.</p><p>This time, after the second breath, Napoleon’s entire body convulses as he coughs the remaining water out of his lungs, and Illya cannot pretend that the unclenching feeling in his chest is not intense relief. Without thinking, he scoops Napoleon’s body into his arms, positioning him so he can hack up the rest of the pink-tinged water.</p><p>“Peril,” Napoleon gasps, his chest heaving as he clings tightly to Illya, one hand clenched in the front of his shirt and the other curled around his shoulder.</p><p>And then, inexplicably, Illya’s lips meet Napoleon’s again. They are still cold, but this time they are responsive and moving against Illya’s in a way that further loosens the knot tied up underneath his sternum. The metallic tang of blood is sharp in his mouth and they are not out of the woods yet but he is <em>alive</em>, and Illya is not thinking about anything else.</p><p>Not until Napoleon makes a little sound in the back of his throat, almost a whimper, as his fingers dig weakly into Illya’s shoulder, and Illya comes back to himself like he’s coming to the surface of the sea all over again.</p><p>What the <em>fuck </em>is he doing?</p><p>He pulls back, staring with wide eyes at his partner, who is still pretty out of it and coughing weakly. Illya can’t quite make out if that is fortunate and unfortunate, in this moment. There is no time to think about it, though, because Napoleon is still losing too much blood. They have to get back to shore and to a hospital, and he will have to deal with Gaby’s wrath at getting themselves into such a situation even though he is not the one she should be yelling at, and it will no doubt will be days before he can think of anything besides getting this mission wrapped up.</p><p>Even then, he’s still not going to willingly think about <em>this</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, the inherant intimacy of stitching up your partner's wounds.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>III</p><p>It had been one of <em>those</em> missions. One where things seemed to go wrong at every turn, where little mistakes accumulated into near-failure, where luck was decidedly not on their side. Napoleon supposes that the last one is a little unfair; they’d had enough luck that they’d all made it out bruised, but otherwise uninjured. And the mission <em>hadn’t</em> failed, in the end. They were all drained, though, wrung out by too many tough calls and near misses. None of them spoke on the way back to the safehouse, nor do they have any words to spare as they disperse within it: Napoleon to the bar cart, Gaby into one of the bedrooms, and Illya disappearing into the bathroom.</p><p>It’s tempting to collapse onto the couch with a tumbler full of whisky and let the alcohol numb the ache that has settled into his bones. Napoleon has done as much after many such missions, leaving his partners to their own devices, but this time something itches at the back of his mind, a sense of unease that he can’t quite place. Taking a gulp of his whisky, he leaves the tumbler on the coffee table and walks over to the still-open door of the bedroom Gaby had taken.</p><p>Within, he finds her sprawled out face down on the bed, already asleep. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat or her shoes, which is something she is sure to be grumpy about tomorrow when she wakes. Napoleon carefully pulls off her heels, setting them neatly against the wall, then gently turns her so he can slide one arm and then the other out of the coat. Gaby remains steadfastly dead to the world through the entire process, and Napoleon can’t help the small, fond smile that sneaks onto his lips. With luck, she’ll stay out all night; she certainly could use the sleep.</p><p>To his surprise, Illya has still not emerged from the bathroom by the time he closes the door to the bedroom behind him. It’s only then that he notices the smattering of dark spots on the floor, forming a trail that leads unmistakably from the front door to the bathroom. He bends down to swipe a finger through one and it comes away red. Swearing under his breath, Napoleon crosses to the bathroom and presses an ear to the door. For a moment he hears nothing, and then there is a soft hiss and something clattering against the sink.</p><p>He pushes the door open, not bothering to announce his entry, because he already knows what would happen if he did. The look of surprise on Illya's face is quickly replaced by a snarl that would probably be forbidding to anyone else. Napoleon is long since used to it by now, though.</p><p>“You don’t knock?” Illya snaps.</p><p>Napoleon crosses his arms over his chest and gives Illya an unimpressed look. “Not when my partner is trying to hide a serious injury.”</p><p>“It’s nothing.”</p><p>It’s clearly not nothing. Illya is shirtless and hunched over the sink, one hand pressing a formerly-white towel to his lower back while the other tightly clutches a pair of scissors, his knuckles shining white through the layer of blood covering his skin. There’s plenty of blood on the tile floor, too, as well as smeared across the porcelain of the sink. Napoleon can’t figure out how his partner could have hidden this injury for so long. Without waiting for an invitation, he steps into the bathroom and prizes the towel out of Illya’s grip, ignoring his half-hearted protests as he does so. It says something about Illya’s current state—something worrying—that he barely puts up any resistance.</p><p>“<em>Jesus</em>, Peril,” Napoleon swears as he carefully peels back the towel to reveal a long, shallow gash arcing from Illya’s spine to nearly the top of his hip bone. The bleeding has already almost stopped, but it will need stitches for sure. “When did this happen?”</p><p>Illya grunts and shrugs noncommittally. “During the fight. Someone had a knife.”</p><p>“You don’t say. I thought maybe I had somehow missed someone wielding a sword, with how much blood is all over this bathroom.”</p><p>“Is not deep,” Illya grits out between clenched teeth as Napoleon wipes away the blood around the edges of the wound. “Just needs a bandage.”<br/>
<br/>
“Like hell it does,” Napoleon scoffs. “I don’t give a shit about your Soviet stoicism. You need stitches. A lot of them.”</p><p>Illya hisses but doesn’t voice any more protests. His shoulders sag, and with that Napoleon knows Illya won’t fight him anymore. Well, not <em>much</em>. Napoleon finishes wiping up most of the blood smeared across his partner’s back, noting the way his muscles tense whenever he gets too close to the laceration.</p><p>Discarding the ruined towel, Napoleon fishes a pad of gauze out of the med kit and presses it gently to the wound. “Hold this,” he instructs, and Illya complies without hesitation. He uses a couple of long strips of tape to temporarily secure it, then gathers up the rest of the supplies, including the bloody scissors that Illya finally relinquishes, and stands up straight again. “This is going to take a while, so you might as well be more comfortable. C’mon.”</p><p>When Illya’s response to this is a look of confusion, Napoleon grabs one of his arms and leads him back out into the living room, then indicates that he should sit backwards in one of the armless chairs. Illya frowns at him but drops into the seat all the same, crossing his arms along the top of chair back and resting his chin on them.</p><p>“Here,” Napoleon says, holding out his abandoned tumbler of whisky and a couple of painkillers. “Take these.”</p><p>“I don’t need—”</p><p>Napoleon’s heavy sigh cuts him off. “Just take them, ok? If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for me so I don’t have to hear you hissing in pain while I sew you up.”</p><p>Illya grumbles but does as he’s told, draining the whisky before he hands the tumbler back. Napoleon considers refilling it for himself but thinks better of it; he’s had enough already to soothe his frayed nerves, and he needs his concentration for this. Certainly after he’s done, though.</p><p>He grabs a pillow off the couch and folds himself onto it in front of the chair, then peels back the gauze pad to begin the long, slow process of stitching up the wound. One end of it reaches nearly to the waistband of Illya’s pants, and Napoleon places a hand lightly over the warm, smooth skin of Illya’s waist to steady himself as he leans in to get a better look. Illya tenses at the contact, which makes Napoleon pause uncertainly; his hand is not particularly close to the wound, and he hasn’t even begun the actual stitching, so he’s unsure of what caused the tension this time.</p><p>“Ok, Peril?” he asks.</p><p>Illya relaxes some, if not completely. “Ok.”</p><p>After that Illya mostly holds still, flinching every so often at the tug of the needle and thread. Napoleon makes small, neat stitches, which takes longer but will leave less of a scar in the end. He knows that Illya doesn’t really care—clearly, since he’d been about to just slap a bandage on the wound—but it feels worth it anyway. They both have enough jagged scars from rushed field medicine.</p><p>“So what was your plan?” Napoleon asks after a while, just to break the silence that has settled over the room. “You were just going to not say anything about this?”</p><p>Illya grunts in response, and for a moment Napoleon thinks that’s the only answer he’ll get, but then Illya mumbles, “Did not want to worry anyone.”</p><p>Napoleon huffs a laugh at that, shaking his head. “I assure you, finding you in a blood-covered bathroom was not a way to keep me from worrying.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Illya hums, almost uncertainly. “You were not supposed to see that part.”</p><p>There is humor in his voice, and Napoleon can just picture the tiny smile curling his lips. Then Illya tenses again, the muscles of his back clenching in a stronger reaction than the usual flinches, and abruptly Napoleon realizes that he’d unconciously begun tracing little circles on his partner’s bare skin with his thumb as he worked. Which is probably entirely too familiar.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mutters, dropping his hand to the chair quickly and inwardly cursing his apparent lack of self-restraint.</p><p>Illya turns his head to glance down at him over his shoulder, then returns to staring off across the room with his head cradled on his arms. “It’s… ok,” he says eventually, so quietly that Napoleon almost doesn’t hear him. “You don’t have to move it.”</p><p>Oh. Napoleon’s not entirely sure what to make of that, to be honest. He hesitates for a moment before returning his hand to it’s previous position on Illya’s flank, trying to ignore the way something clenches deep in his gut at the feel of the smooth skin under his palm. Nothing has changed, really, since it was there earlier, but somehow the skin feels hotter than it had before, the weight of his hand heavier, and the silence between them much more loaded.</p><p>Napoleon takes a deep, slightly unsteady breath, and forces himself to focus on the job in front of him; he still has almost half of the wound left to stitch. They don’t speak again, after that, and eventually Illya stops flinching even at the gentle tug of the stitches. Finally, Napoleon finishes, tying off the thread neatly.</p><p>“All done, Peril.”</p><p>Illya doesn’t react. Napoleon leans to the side from his position on the floor and realizes that, against all expectation, Illya has fallen asleep. His head is still cradled on his arms, folded on top of the chair back, and his breathing is slow and even. Amazing. Only Illya could fall asleep while getting stitches without any anaesthetic.</p><p>Napoleon sits back again and studies at his handiwork, letting his fingers trail lightly along edge of the stitches, an act of tenderness that would probably not have been allowed otherwise. Illya makes no sign that he’s aware of this transgression. He shouldn’t be doing this—Illya’s statement that he didn’t mind Napoleon’s hand was not permission to take such liberties—but he can’t quite quash the impulse. Staring at the stitched-up wound makes a storm of emotions twist in his chest: the sick sense of mortality that always accompanies such injuries, a blooming warmth that Illya trusts him enough to not only let him take care his wound but to fall asleep while he does so, and the wrenching torment of desire for something he cannot have.</p><p>Unfortunately, the inconvenient feelings he’s been harboring for his partner have only gotten worse. Bad enough that he’s begun imagining things that aren't there, like when his oxygen-starved brain tried to believe that Illya’s life-saving resuscitation had taken a more intimate turn. He knows it can’t have really happened, he knows he must have just deliriously imagined it, but that doesn’t stop the phantom sensation of Illya’s lips moving against his from haunting his dreams.</p><p>Before he can think on it further, Napoleon leans forward to press a gentle kiss next to the wound. Then he rests his forehead against his partner’s back, just for a moment, and silently prays that Illya would forgive him, if he knew.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, soft moments over a sickbed.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>IV</p><p>The safehouse is uncomfortably quiet. In the months that he’s been working for UNCLE, Illya is sure that he hasn’t experienced this complete of a silence on a mission. Gaby is currently out picking up food for dinner, and Napoleon is asleep in one of the bedrooms, leaving Illya sitting in the living room with his travel chess set and the silence.</p><p>He’s not sure when such a quiet became <em>uncomfortable</em>.</p><p>Illya used to revel in the silence. When he worked alone, most of his time on missions was spent in silence or near to it. Just him, and his mission prep, and his chess. With two partners, though, someone is always making noise. There is always chattering or music or the soft sounds of Napoleon cooking or Gaby tinkering with equipment. Usually more than one at the same time. At first it had driven him more than a little mad, but apparently the noise had worked its way into his psyche, and now its absence is jarring.</p><p>With a sigh, he sits back in the chair, leaving his chess game partly played on the table in front of him. Somehow he can’t concentrate, which makes no sense. The quiet should make it easier to focus on the game, not harder. What has happened to him? He should have insisted on going out with Gaby to get the food, if only have something to do. Napoleon would have been perfectly fine alone, sleeping off whatever illness he’d picked up after spending an entire night out in the cold rain during a stakeout. Stupid Cowboy. Any babushka could have told him he would get sick.</p><p>He stands and stretches, feeling like he has to move and do something with the restlessness thrumming in his veins. What that it is, he doesn’t know; there is little to do right now related to the mission, and one can only check the perimeter so many times. Still, he starts moving, and he’s halfway to Napoleon’s bedroom before he realizes where he’s going. Well, it can’t hurt to check on the American. Make sure he’s still breathing.</p><p>When Illya cracks open the door he finds, unsurprisingly, Napoleon asleep in the bed, propped up with a large number of pillows. Whatever decongestant Gaby got him at the pharmacy seems to be doing its job; he’s breathing relatively easily, with the side effect that the medicine has knocked him out cold. Illya will no doubt need to shake him awake for dinner, and Napoleon will snipe at him for disturbing his sleep, but he’ll be thankful to get some food in him.</p><p>Illya should go. He should turn around and close the door and return to his silence, but he doesn’t. Something draws him into the room and toward the bed, until he’s standing at Napoleon’s side and looking down at his sleeping partner. It’s odd, seeing him like this. Napoleon wears so many masks, his exterior always so smooth and polished. Not now, though. Now his face is open and relaxed in his sleep, his cheeks slightly flushed from what is no doubt a fever and his hair mussed in a way that would unquestionably irritate him. He’s serene in a way Illya’s not sure he’s ever seen before. He’s also achingly beautiful.</p><p>Gently, Illya lowers himself until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He reaches up to brush a lock of hair away from Napoleon’s brow, and then, before he really knows what he’s doing, he bends down to place a soft kiss on his partner’s forehead. He’s not sure what compelled him to do so, only that it had felt right, even though that is the last thing it should feel. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. The skin there is hot against his lips, and Illya briefly wonders if he should wake Napoleon up to take more medicine. Well, he can wait until Gaby gets back with dinner. There’s no sign that his little indiscretion has been noticed; Napoleon’s face is just as placid as it was before when Illya pulls back and stands again, then turns to leave.</p><p>“You know, my mother used to just use the back of her hand,” comes a low voice from behind him.</p><p>Illya freezes for a moment before he turns slowly back to look at his partner. “What?”</p><p>“To check for a fever,” Napoleon says, his voice rough with sleep and sickness. His eyes had been still closed, but they flutter open now, still heavy-lidded, and there’s a tiny, almost smug smile curling his lips. His face is still open, though, almost vulnerable, and the sight makes something tighten in Illya’s chest.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Illya’s not sure what else to say. Clearly he can’t pretend that he hadn’t just kissed his partner on the forehead, and he doesn’t think there’s any way he can play it off if Napoleon decides to give him hell for it. So he just stands there, seemingly stuck in place halfway to the door, and waits.</p><p>“So am I?” Napoleon asks eventually.</p><p>“Are you what, Cowboy?”</p><p>“Feverish.”</p><p>Illya swallows, the click of his throat loud in the silence. “Yes.”</p><p>“Guess I should take some more medicine,” Napoleon says, almost hesitantly. “Can you get me some more water?”</p><p>Their gazes remain locked for another few moments, and it seems like Napoleon is not going to say anything more about the kiss. Just like he hadn’t ever said anything about the previous ones after they’d happened. Illya supposes he should be thankful. Grateful that Napoleon is willing to let these things go, that he has a partner who will not hold his moments of weakness against him. Certainly he shouldn’t feel <em>disappointed</em>, or whatever this hollow sensation is settling into the pit of his stomach.</p><p>“Sure,” Illya says with a nod, then finally he turns to leave the room.</p><p>When he returns with a glass of water in hand, Napoleon is sitting up more and shaking a couple of pills out of a bottle. The lock of hair that Illya had pushed back has flopped back onto his forehead, and Illya’s hands itch to tuck it back again. To comb through Napoleon’s hair and let the curls twine around his fingers. Fuck.</p><p>He walks over to the bedside and hands the glass to Napoleon, who accepts it gratefully and takes a drink to chase back the pills, the long line of his throat working alluringly as he swallows. There is a storm brewing within him, a war of <em>shoulds</em> and <em>should nots</em>, as he stares down at his American partner, the very embodiment of everything Illya cannot possibly want. And yet.</p><p>“Gaby will be back with dinner soon?” Napoleon asks, oblivious to his turmoil.</p><p>“Yes,” Illya nods. “I will let you rest.”</p><p>Napoleon catches his wrist before he can get far, but drops it immediately when Illya looks down at the contact. His expression is almost sheepish, which is odd to say the least. Illya thinks it must be the sickness, that it is just the flush of fever that’s making his blue eyes shine so brightly in the low light.</p><p>“Stay? I’ve been sleeping all day,” Napoleon explains with a small, lopsided smile. “I’m dying for some conversation. You can tell me how the mission is going?”</p><p>Illya hesitates. Something about the quiet of the house, about their near-whispered voices, about the dimness of the room—all of it flashes like warning light. It reads like a situation designed to get him to let his guard down, as if he had not already left it behind when he entered the room. As if Napoleon had not been stripping it away, methodically, for months.</p><p>“Of course, Cowboy,” he says finally. He grabs a chair out of the corner of the room and drags it to the bedside, only adding to the intimacy he should not be seeking. It is nothing, he tells himself. Two partners discussing a mission, as they have done many times before.</p><p>So why does this feel so different?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, mustaches and drunken come-ons.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to eavos, who requested Napoleon with a mustache á la August Walker.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>V</p><p>Napoleon can’t help but smile when he sees a very distinctive car sitting in the pickup area at Idlewild Airport. Normally he’d expect them to send one of the junior agents, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain. The mission had been long and paradoxically lonely, considering how it had been his job to play the part of the social butterfly and schmooze his way into the inner circle of a criminal organization. Against all the odds, he had missed having his partners around to discuss the operation and unwind at the end of the day—had even missed Gaby’s exasperated eye rolls and Illya’s disapproving glares—which was quite a revelation to have for a man who previously couldn’t <em>stand</em> to work with other people. Illya would say he is going soft, and he might be right. Not that Napoleon would admit that.</p><p>“How’d you get stuck on chauffeur duty?” he asks as he opens the passenger door to the car and drops into the seat. “Dismantle one of Waverly’s favorite radios again?”</p><p>He can see the corner of Gaby’s mouth quirk up, though she doesn’t immediately look up from her newspaper. “That was one time and— what the <em>hell</em> is that?” she yelps in surprise when she finally turns to look at him.</p><p>“What?” Napoleon frowns, looking hurriedly down at himself. He can’t see what could possibly cause this severe of a reaction. “Is there something on my suit?”</p><p>Gaby gives him a look of pure disgust and gestures vaguely at his face, which, rude. “That <em>thing</em> on your face.”</p><p>“What, the mustache?”</p><p>“Ugh, yes, <em>why?”</em></p><p>“You saw the photos of Walker in the file,” Napoleon scoffs in disbelief. He rubs a hand over his jaw where several days worth of stubble is doing its best to catch up to the full mustache on his upper lip. It hadn’t really seemed worth it to shave until he made it back to his own apartment and all of his amenities. “What did you think was going to happen when I was assigned to impersonate him at the conference?”</p><p>Still frowning, she shakes her head before she turns away and starts the car. “I didn’t really consider it, to be honest with you.”</p><p>“Well, I think it’s quite dashing.”</p><p>“It’s <em>hideous</em>,” she insists, which Napoleon thinks is rather uncalled for. It’s not his worst look, and there had been more than few ladies at the conference who <em>clearly</em> disagreed with his partner. “Better not let Illya see it.”</p><p>He’s not sure what do make of that, though. “Why? He have some vendetta against mustaches that I don’t know about?”</p><p>“No, but he’ll make fun of you mercilessly.”</p><p>“I’d like to see him try.”</p><p>Gaby hums skeptically at that, tipping her head to the side. “Well you’ll get your chance. We’re headed to his place for debrief.”</p><p>‘Debrief’ in this case was not, in fact, Napoleon’s official debriefing, which would take place at UNCLE HQ tomorrow morning. Rather, it was what the three of them had taken to calling their get-togethers whenever some subset of them got back from a mission that the others had not been part of. Napoleon’s flight had gotten in late, so he isn’t surprised that they are headed directly to Illya’s, though that does mean that he’d get no chance to freshen up after his long flight. Oh well. His partners have seen him in worse shape.</p><p>“So what did you and Peril get up to while I was gone?”</p><p>“Ugh, <em>nothing</em>,” Gaby grunts. “It was incredibly boring. Even when we went to Montreal for two days to intercept a shipment of weapons parts. Illya moped around the whole time.”</p><p>“Missed me that much, did he?” Napoleon teases, sending her a shit-eating grin. He expects an eye roll in response, or perhaps a sarcastic laugh. Certainly not the weighted look she shoots him out of the corner of her eye. It makes him feel like he’s missing something, which is more than a little unnerving.</p><p>“Hope you’re well-rested, because I think Waverly’s sending us out again in another day or two,” she says instead of answering him. “All of us this time.”</p><p>Napoleon shrugs and decides to let whatever it was go. “I’ll manage.”</p><p>“As long as you shave that damned thing off, because otherwise I’m putting in for a transfer.”</p><p>“Just for that, I’m thinking about keeping it.”</p><p><em>There’s</em> the eye roll. Ah. Good to be home.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Gaby was wrong about Illya’s reaction to the mustache, as it turns out. The Russian does a double take when Napoleon strolls into his apartment, his eyes widening so slightly that anyone else might have missed it, but otherwise makes no comment. Unexpected. Teasing, as Gaby hypothesized, wouldn’t have been surprising, nor would have some kind of snide comment. Nothing, though… that is a little odd. It’s not until much later in the evening that Napoleon’s facial hair comes up in conversation, and it is Gaby that brings it up.</p><p>“Is it really stealing when you’re stealing from fascists?” Napoleon ponders, after what is perhaps a few drinks past what he should really have considering he does have to meet with Waverly tomorrow morning. That doesn’t stop him from refilling his glass.</p><p>“Is still stealing, Cowboy,” Illya puts in. He looks thoughtful for a moment, his frown softening slightly, and then: “Maybe they deserve it, though.”</p><p>Napoleon barks out a laugh and throws back half of his glass of bourbon at once. “Oh, they definitely do, Peril. And anyway, the sheer volume of the jewels—most of them stolen in the war, mind you—that these people bring on trips, they’re never going to notice a few of them are missing.”</p><p>“Wait a minute, are you telling me that some of these women actually invited you up to their rooms? Looking like <em>that</em>?” Gaby scoffs.</p><p>“Honestly, my dear, is it so hard to believe that some people genuinely <em>enjoy</em> this mustache?”</p><p>“Yes,” she answers, giving him a supremely unimpressed look.</p><p>Illya actually laughs at that, which is a sure sign that he’s on his way to drunk. Especially when he tries to hide the smile he’s trying to fight back behind his drink. He’s slowly sinking further down into the chair, and Napoleon predicts he’ll end up on the floor at some point.</p><p>“All right, laugh it up,” Napoleon says, scowling at them. “Neither of you knows what you’re missing.”</p><p>“And <em>that</em> is something I’m happy to remain ignorant about,” Gaby tells him as she stands. “I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I will have to call it a night. I’d remind you that Waverly is expecting a <em>coherent</em> debrief tomorrow, but I suspect that may be a moot point by now.”</p><p>“Wait, you’re just leaving me here?” Napoleon protests. His own apartment isn’t that far away, but the chances of him walking there after the volume of bourbon he’s just drunk are slim. Gaby is clearly sober, for some reason, so obviously she could just be a good friend and drive him.</p><p>She glances over to Illya for a moment before her gaze slides back to Napoleon, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Yes. No more mustaches in my car.” With that, she turns on her heel and departs.</p><p>“Well how do you like <em>that</em>?” Napoleon huffs, slumping back into the couch.</p><p>Illya chuckles at him again, draining the scotch in his glass. “You can have couch, Cowboy,” he slurs.</p><p>“So what about you, Peril?”</p><p>“I will sleep in the bed,” Illya answers, his brow furrowing in confusion.<br/><br/>“No no,” Napoleon says as he waves his tumbler slightly wildly through the air in front of him. The ice clinks softly in the glass, audible now that Gaby’s not around to put on records. “The mustache thing. You know. Have you ever kissed someone with a mustache?”</p><p>Illya blinks at him a few times, his stony face unreadable, until finally: “Have <em>you</em>?”</p><p>That’s… not really an answer. Napoleon had expected a vehement denial, perhaps some horrified sputtering, but a flat out evasion? Well, two can play at that game. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”</p><p>“No, actually,” Illya answers as he pours himself some more scotch.</p><p>“Well, it really is quite unique,” Napoleon explains, fully aware that he’s indirectly answering Illya’s question anyway. “I recommend you try it sometime. You know. Just for… educational purposes.”</p><p>Illya regards him for a long moment, as if he is actually considering this proposal, and Napoleon doesn’t really know what to make of that. On second thought, getting blazing drunk and talking about kissing was maybe not the best of ideas. Too late now, though.</p><p>“Hmm. I think no, Cowboy.”</p><p>“Your loss,” Napoleon says lightly, trying not to feel disappointed.</p><p>The conversation shifts, then, to safer topics. They talk fairly aimlessly for a while longer, during which time Illya tries and fails to tempt Napoleon into a game of chess, and the both of them become steadily drunker. Illya does, in fact, end up on the floor, leaning heavily on the coffee table, while Napoleon reclines progressively further and further on the couch until he’s completely stretched out along it’s length. Fatigue pulls relentlessly at him, until he’s reduced to mostly hummed responses to whatever Illya is saying.</p><p>Eventually they come to a mutual and unspoken agreement that it is time for sleep, and Napoleon drags the blanket that’s usually draped across the back haphazardly over himself without opening his eyes. With luck the combination of jetlag and alcohol will knock him solidly out until morning, when Illya will no doubt get up far too early despite the fact that he’s currently struggling to push himself off the floor. This is more drunk than Napoleon has seen his partner in quite a while, and he idly wonders if there’s an underlying cause he should know about. Well, he’ll probably find out eventually, if there’s anything to find out.</p><p>“Cowboy,” Illya whispers, surprisingly close to Napoleon’s face.</p><p>Napoleon had lost track of him and assumed he’d left the room, but apparently that is not the case. Illya’s warm breath washes across his skin, quite heavily scented with the smoky-sweet aroma of scotch and the sharp bite of alcohol. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, though; he’s half asleep already, and really should be aiming for entirely asleep if he’s actually going to be able to get up tomorrow morning.</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“I have never kissed anyone with a mustache,” Illya confesses.</p><p>Napoleon’s lips curl into a wry smile. “I figured as much, Peril.”</p><p>Illya is silent then, and Napoleon thinks that’s the end of it. He lets himself slip further toward unconsciousness, until quite suddenly there are soft lips on his.</p><p>It <em>must</em> be a dream. The lips press chastely against his mouth, somehow tentative and bold at the same time, and stubble other than his own scrapes across his chin. Napoleon clutches at the figure bending over him, or tries to, but his movements are sluggish, like he’s clawing his way through water instead of air. Consciousness threatens to slip away from him, even as he desperately clings to the last threads of it, and then the figure is withdrawing. The whole thing can’t have lasted for more than a moment, though time seems to stretch around him. He forces his eyes open with gasp and a name still lingering unvoiced on his lips.</p><p><em>Illya</em>.</p><p>But his partner is across the room, hesitating for only a moment before he slips through the door to his bedroom. He doesn’t look back at Napoleon. Maybe it <em>was</em> a dream.</p><p>Then he licks his lips, almost absently, and tastes the scotch that he decidedly did not drink tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, confrontations over the Seine.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did not expect this chapter to take such an angsty turn when I started writing this fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>+1</p><p>Napoleon is going to leave.</p><p>He hasn’t said as much, certainly not, but Illya can tell. Napoleon is good at hiding things, probably the best that Illya has ever met, but Illya has worked with him long enough by now to know that something is wrong. Ever since that drunken night in Illya’s apartment, he’s been distant. Almost reserved. They still work seamlessly together on the mission that follows—of course they do; Illya would expect nothing less—but it is obvious that Napoleon is avoiding being alone with him, whenever he can manage it.</p><p>Clearly Napoleon had been willing to overlook the first few instances, but now he can’t pretend not to know what Illya is. All it took was getting far too drunk and letting Napoleon’s provocative comments get the better of him. He should be thankful that his partner hadn’t outed him to the authorities, or shot him dead on the spot. He can’t deny that some small part of him hoped it would be different with Napoleon, though. Napoleon, with his teasing innuendos that used to set Illya’s teeth on edge. With his flirtatious banter that had somehow gone from irritating to charming. He should have never let himself be so seduced by it. Should have known it was nothing more than an act, that his partner could never have meant any of it. It still hurts more than he could have ever imagined.</p><p>Maybe Napoleon won’t leave UNCLE, but he will leave Illya, and that is what matters. Illya cannot afford to lose this team. Cannot afford to lose his <em>partner</em>. Even as he thinks this, he knows it’s true. It should be horrifying, needing other people like this. Instead, the only horrifying thing is the idea that he might have to learn how to be alone again.</p><p>Of course Gaby has noticed too, how could she not? She spends just as much time with them—sometimes Illya thinks she knows them better than they know themselves—and her pointed comments have gotten even more piercing lately.</p><p>“Whatever’s going on between you two, you need to fix it,” she hisses at him, when they’re alone in the safehouse apartment at the end of the mission. Napoleon had gone out, saying he needed some fresh air and was going for a walk. For a while Illya thought he might be left to wallow in his misery, but apparently not.</p><p>Illya wrenches his wrist out of her grasp and crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively. “Why am I the one who needs to fix things?” he shoots back, the denial of his culpability in the matter coming out almost reflexively.</p><p>Gaby doesn’t answer him, but the look in her eyes says there is a lot more that she has noticed in the past few months. “Go fix it,” she orders. “Now.”</p><p>“I do not even know where he went,” Illya protests in a last ditch effort to avoid a conversation he definitely does not want to have.</p><p>“Please. I know you have a tracker on him.”</p><p>In the end, he doesn’t even have to check it. They’re in Paris, and Illya remembers Napoleon talking once about how much he loves to stand on the Pont des Arts at night and take in the glittering lights of the city. The late hour and the chill in the air means there aren’t many others out, and Illya can see Napoleon’s distinctive form leaning on the railing the minute the bridge comes into view. He pauses, watching his partner for a long while, but Napoleon does nothing except stare out at the river in front of him. What he is thinking about, Illya cannot guess.</p><p>Illya is not entirely sure what to say. He’s not good at things like this, entirely hopeless at talking about his feelings even under the best of circumstances. In the end, he supposes he doesn’t really need to. What he needs to do is convince Napoleon that said feelings won’t cause trouble, that he will be able to control himself better than he has to this point. At the very least he will convince Napoleon to give him another shot, a chance to prove himself.</p><p>Eventually he cannot put it off anymore. Napoleon’s gaze doesn’t waver from the Parisian sights in front of him, but nevertheless Illya knows that his partner is watching his approach. Napoleon holds himself carefully neutral, his body language betraying nothing, which itself gives away how tightly he’s controlling his reactions. Illya stops next to him, leaving a cautious amount of space between them, and turns to stare out at the dark river.</p><p>“I’m guessing you came out here to say something,” Napoleon prompts after a while.</p><p>A fair assumption, though that doesn’t mean that Illya has found the words yet to say it. His thoughts are jumbled, and nothing really seems right. Napoleon is looking at him expectantly, though, so he has to say <em>something</em>. He casts about desperately, and comes up with: “Don’t leave.”</p><p>Perhaps predictably, Napoleon just looks confused. He straightens up some, turning partly towards Illya and tipping his head slightly. “I wasn’t going to, Peril.”</p><p>“No, not now,” Illya clarifies, cursing inwardly. “The team. You are going to ask for a transfer. Or… I don’t know. Maybe you will just disappear.”</p><p>Napoleon’s jaw clenches and his entire body stiffens as he turns back toward the river, closing himself off, which is certainly not the way Illya hoped this conversation would go. “And what makes you say that?” he asks eventually, his voice cold.</p><p>“You have been different. Like you are trying to pull away.”</p><p>“I don’t see how keeping a little professional distance is evidence that I’m going to <em>disappear</em>,” Napoleon says, sounding exasperated.</p><p>“A ‘little’ professional distance?” Illya huffs. “That is what you are calling it? We cannot afford to be distant, Cowboy. We are a team.”</p><p>“I hardly think—”</p><p>“You refuse to be alone with me,” Illya says flatly, cutting him off. It feels uncannily like ripping off a bandage. “You do not want to work together anymore.”</p><p>Napoleon freezes, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he closes his jaw abruptly. Illya can practically hear his teeth clack. “That’s not true,” he mutters as his hands close more tightly around the railing.</p><p>“Then why?”</p><p>Surprisingly, Napoleon sighs heavily and closes his eyes as he tips his head toward the sky. “Call it… self-preservation.”</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Illya says, more than a little lost. This is definitely not an answer he expected.</p><p>“No, I don’t suppose you would.” There is obvious bitterness in Napoleon’s voice, and something like regret, and none of it makes any sense.</p><p>“Cowboy, what—”</p><p>“I’m attracted to you, Illya,” Napoleon says in a rush. “I have… <em>feelings</em> for you. And I know I shouldn’t, but I do.” He pauses, as if waiting for a reaction, but Illya is too dumbstruck by this admission to say anything. Then Napoleon mutters, “and now you’ll be the one requesting a transfer.”</p><p>Napoleon drops his hands from the railing and turns to apparently leave this conversation behind, but Illya catches his arm before he can get far. The lights of Paris sparkle in his eyes, and for a moment Illya just stares down into them, unable to fully process what is happening. That Napoleon might return his feelings was not something he had ever considered, not even in the realm of possibilities, and now he’s not entirely sure what to do with this revelation.</p><p>“No,” Illya manages.</p><p>“No… what?”<br/><br/>“I don’t want a transfer, Cowboy. I told <em>you</em> not to leave.”</p><p>Napoleon huffs out a mirthless laugh at that, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, Peril. I was trying to keep my distance because I don’t want this to change things between us, but I’m not sure that’s possible. Not now, anyway.”</p><p>“And what if I wanted things to change?” Illya asks impulsively.</p><p>There is a beat of silence, and then Napoleon breathes: “What?”</p><p>“I thought you were trying to stay away because you knew what— what I am,” Illya confesses. Somehow, it’s easier than he expected; maybe it’s the dark, or how the quiet hum of the city at night seems to envelope them, isolating them from the outside world. He takes a small step forward so that only inches separate them now. “Because you knew how I felt.”</p><p>A flurry of emotions cross Napoleon’s face, utterly unguarded, from confusion to realization, to surprise and finally something like tentative hope. He looks searchingly at Illya for a moment, like he still can’t quiet believe what he’s just said, and when he speaks again he sounds inexplicably breathless. “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.”</p><p>For a moment, frustration surges through him. After all of this—after everything that he has done—how can Napoleon not see? It’s true that Illya has spent a lot of time trying to deny those feelings, and then to hide them, but he’d slipped up multiple times. Did Napoleon think he just went around kissing people that he <em>wasn’t</em> in love with?</p><p>So he asks, much as he doesn’t want to think about those past moments of his lost self-control. “How is this a surprise? I have… <em>kissed</em> you before,” he forces out.</p><p>“I have to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure those weren’t all in my head,” Napoleon admits, and even in the low light the flush of pink on his cheeks is unmistakable.</p><p>“They were not, Cowboy.”</p><p>“Well, can you blame me for thinking so?” Napoleon retorts, a little defensively. “You never gave any indication that anything had happened. And it’s not like the first time we kissed was particularly <em>successful</em>.”</p><p>Ah. The party. The kiss had taken Illya off-guard—even with Napoleon’s prior announcement, he hadn’t thought the other man could possibly intend to do such a thing—and it had taken every thread of control he possessed to keep himself from responding in kind. He had stood there with Napoleon boxed against the wall, their bodies pressed too close together, and had felt an impossible tug of desire curl through him for perhaps the first time. At least, the first time he truly recognized it, even if he refused to acknowledge it for quite some time. The beginning of the end, he thinks now.</p><p>Illya lifts one hand to Napoleon’s face, his fingertips ghosting across his cheek. “We could have another.”<br/><br/>“Another what?”</p><p>“Another first kiss.”</p><p>“Oh,” Napoleon breathes, his eyes slightly wide. “Yes. I’d like that.”</p><p>Napoleon’s head tips up as Illya leans in, crossing the narrow distance between them to press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s gentle at first, barely more than a breath, but Napoleon surges forward eagerly and Illya quickly lets himself get lost in it. In the push and pull and the slide of tongues and the scrape of teeth. Napoleon’s hands slip around his waist, tugging his body closer, and Illya gives in to the long-unfulfilled urge to twine his fingers in his partner’s hair as he cradles Napoleon’s head between his hands. They kiss until Illya’s lungs are burning and even then he doesn’t pull back, can’t bear to let go now that Napoleon is in his arms.</p><p>“How was that, Cowboy?” Illya breathes when they finally do part, foreheads pressed together as they both huff for breath in the cool night air.</p><p>Napoleon laughs and nuzzles forward against Illya’s jaw, lips trailing lightly over his skin. “It’ll do.”</p><p>“Is that all?” Illya says, pulling back to stare at his partner incredulously.</p><p>“Mm, well, you could always kiss me again, if you think you have something to prove.”</p><p>And so Illya does.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Or, on morning afters.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did not intend to write this chapter, and then when I started it completely got away from me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>+ another 1…?</p><p>Napoleon wakes to find himself curled around a warm body. A warm, apparently <em>naked</em> body. That in and of itself shouldn’t be too surprising—although it has been far from a common occurrence lately—but that does not take into consideration how achingly familiar said body is. Not that he’s ever seen it from this particular perspective. He knows the line of these shoulders, knows this patchwork of scars (several of them from wounds he himself had bound), knows this hand that is possessively gripping his own waist.</p><p>At first he’s ready to write it off as a dream, but then the previous night comes back to him in bits and pieces. Particularly the part where he had admitted that he’d thought the previous moments of intimacy between them had been figments of his own overactive imagination, and how his partner had quickly disabused him of that notion. How it had taken them longer than it should have to get back to the apartment because they kept getting distracted by kisses, laughing like they were young lovers instead of dangerous international spies. How they had fallen into bed together as if it were the easiest thing in the world and not bought dearly over months of misunderstandings and stubborn inability to see what was in front of them.</p><p>No, this is real, as unbelievable as it might seem.</p><p>Illya is still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Napoleon pushes himself up on one elbow and stares down at the beautiful man lying next to him. His face is peaceful in a way it rarely is, his usual forbidding barriers lowered. Or perhaps it is just that Napoleon has been allowed within them, allowed to see what few others even guess is concealed beyond.</p><p>He should probably let his partner sleep; it was, after all, the end of a mission, and they had gotten less sleep than they might have the previous night, considering their, ah, <em>activities</em>. But instead Napoleon leans down to press a soft kiss to plush lips, unable to resist stealing even what is freely given. To his delight, Illya smiles against his mouth, the arm that’s still wrapped around Napoleon’s waist tightening as his other hand reaches up to slide into his hair and pull him more firmly into the kiss. They kiss lazily for several minutes, and it is only after Napoleon finally pulls back again that Illya opens his eyes.</p><p>“Good morning, Cowboy,” Illya rumbles, his voice rough with sleep.</p><p>There is a small, private smile on his lips, and contentment in his brilliant blue eyes, and it is all Napoleon can do not to simply fall back into more kisses. They might not ever get out of bed, then, and as tempting as that sounds, he’s pretty sure that Gaby might have their heads. Or else leave them behind in Paris, which, now that he thinks on it, doesn’t sound half bad. Best not to tempt her goodwill, though.</p><p>“Morning, Peril,” he says instead, letting his fingers trail lightly over Illya’s collarbone and into the dip behind it. “Sleep well?”</p><p>“Mm, never better.”</p><p>Napoleon quirks an eyebrow at him. “Really?”</p><p>“Well. Not the time that I woke up and could not feel my arm because you were on top of it,” Illya says, his smile tipping into a smirk. “But on the whole, yes.”</p><p>“I take no responsibility for what I do in my sleep,” Napoleon grins.</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“Of course. I’m <em>unconscious</em>, Peril, I can hardly control what my body is doing.”</p><p>Illya pretends to contemplate this for a moment. “Maybe I should reconsider sharing bed with you, then…”</p><p>“Oh no you don’t,” Napoleon jumps in, his free hand tightening around Illya’s shoulder. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”</p><p>A low, rumbling laugh shakes though Illya’s chest at that, eliciting an answering huff of laughter from Napoleon. It is quickly cut off when Illya quite suddenly reverses their positions, though, pushing Napoleon onto his back and looming over him as he presses their bodies together. Napoleon bites back a yelp of surprise but doesn’t quite succeed at smothering the moan that the drag of Illya’s skin against his own draws out of him.</p><p>“Peril—” he gulps, half a warning, but then Illya is kissing him deeply and he can’t remember what he was warning against.</p><p>“So you think it will not be so easy?” Illya murmurs as he nips lightly at the tender skin of Napoleon’s neck, his tongue tracing over marks he had left the previous night.</p><p>Napoleon groans as his hands move across Illya’s sleep-warm skin, gliding reverently over the dip of his back and the curve of his ass. Then he presses probing fingers to more sensitive regions, and is rewarded when his partner’s hips buck forward and the rhythm of his kisses is interrupted by a stifled gasp.</p><p>“Yeah,” Napoleon purrs, grinning wickedly, “I think so.”</p><p>Illya apparently takes this as a challenge, growling into his next kiss and grinding Napoleon more firmly into the bed underneath him.</p><p>“You know,” Napoleon pants as he rocks upwards against his partner in response, “for someone who doesn’t want to share a bed with me, you’re making it rather hard for me to leave it.”</p><p>“Never said I did not <em>want</em> to share a bed with you, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs against his skin, “just that I was not sure if it was a good idea.”</p><p>Napoleon moans as one of Illya’s hands slides between them, curling around him and giving a languid tug. “So?” he manages. “Have you made up your mind yet?”</p><p>Illya hums thoughtfully, as if he truly <em>is</em> considering, and pushes up on his elbows to stare down at Napoleon. “Maybe I need more convincing.”</p><p>“Oh do you?” Napoleon grabs under Illya’s thighs, pulling him forward until his partner is fully straddling him. “Allow me to persuade you,” he teases, grinning, as he rolls his hips up slowly with a promise sparkling in his eyes.</p><p>The little punched-out sound Illya makes at that goes right to his cock, and Napoleon pulls him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. He hadn’t intended to start anything this morning, truly, but asking him to resist <em>this</em> would surely be some kind of torture outlawed by the Geneva Convention.</p><p>Before they get much farther, though, there is the distinct sound of a door slamming and someone stomping across the apartment. Napoleon swears internally; he has no idea what time it is, and frankly he doesn’t care anymore, but he’s not sure his partner will feel the same way.</p><p>“You have two hours until the plane leaves,” Gaby calls to them through the door, sounding unmistakably exasperated. “And I’m not covering for you with Waverly if you miss the flight.”</p><p>She doesn’t wait for an answer before she walks away again. A moment later the front door to the apartment closes, and they are left in silence.</p><p>“Should we…?” Illya begins, but even he sounds reluctant, and he makes no move to climb off of Napoleon.</p><p>“By my calculations we have an hour and forty-five minutes,” Napoleon answers, smirking up at him, “and I intend to make the most of it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all so much for reading, I would love to hear what you thought! Your comments and kudos mean the world to me!</p>
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